The Woman Thou Gavest Me eBook

There were no crowds and bands of music waiting for
us when Tommy brought us ashore, and after leaving
Martin with his broken limb in his mother’s
arms at the gate of Sunny Lodge, he took me over to
the Presbytery in order that Father Dan might carry
me home and so stand between me and my father’s
wrath and Aunt Bridget’s birch.

Unhappily there was no need for this precaution.
The Big House, when we reached it, was in great confusion.
My mother had broken a blood vessel.

TENTH CHAPTER

During the fortnight in which my mother was confined
to bed I was her constant companion and attendant.
With the mighty eagerness of a child who knew nothing
of what the solemn time foreboded I flew about the
house on tiptoe, fetching my mother’s medicine
and her milk and the ice to cool it, and always praising
myself for my industry and thinking I was quite indispensable.

“You couldn’t do without your little Mally,
could you, mammy?” I would say, and my mother
would smooth my hair lovingly with her thin white
hand and answer:

“No, indeed, I couldn’t do without my
little Mally.” And then my little bird-like
beak would rise proudly in the air.

All this time I saw nothing of Martin, and only heard
through Doctor Conrad in his conversations with my
mother, that the boy’s broken arm had been set,
and that as soon as it was better, he was to be sent
to King George’s College, which was at the other
end of Ellan. What was to be done with myself
I never inquired, being so satisfied that my mother
could not get on without me.

I was partly aware that big letters, bearing foreign
postage-stamps and seals and coats of arms, with pictures
of crosses and hearts, were coming to our house.
I was also aware that at intervals, while my mother
was in bed, there was the sound of voices, as if in
eager and sometimes heated conference, in the room
below, and that my mother would raise her pale face
from her pillow and stop my chattering with “Hush!”
when my father’s voice was louder and sterner
than usual. But it never occurred to me to connect
these incidents with myself, until the afternoon of
the day on which my mother got up for the first time.

She was sitting before the fire, for autumn was stealing
on, and I was bustling about her, fixing the rug about
her knees and telling her if she wanted anything she
was to be sure and call her little Mally, when a timid
knock came to the door and Father Dan entered the room.
I can see his fair head and short figure still, and
hear his soft Irish voice, as he stepped forward and
said:

“Now don’t worry, my daughter. Above
all, don’t worry.”

By long experience my mother knew this for a sign
of the dear Father’s own perturbation, and I
saw her lower lip tremble as she asked:

“Hadn’t Mary better run down to the garden?”

“No! Oh no!” said Father Dan.
“It is about Mary I come to speak, so our little
pet may as well remain.”